


Sticks and stones

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [12]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Abduction, Beating, Blood, Broken Bone, Broken Heart, Captivity, Cutting with a knife, Day 12, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Pneumonia, Waterboarding, Whumptober 2020, broken trust, i got the trifecta, medically induced coma, off-label crowbar use, someone ends up on a ventilator, this is graphic hence the archive warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26969755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Jack's cuffed to a chair and Mac is beating the everloving shit out of him. Jack wants answers but it doesn't look like those are on the menu.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 24
Kudos: 35
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Sticks and stones

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [aravenwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood) for her extreme kindness in being willing to beta all of these whumptober fills! Especially so since she's also writing her own (amazing!) fics too! Please go check her out and give her some love!!!

The hood comes off after god only knows how long and Jack blinks lazily in the bright fluorescent lights. “Mac?”

Mac stares down at Jack holding the bag in his hand. His face is… empty. The characteristic smile is gone, even the brightness of his eyes seems dimmed.

“Mac, hey, buddy. You’re kinda scaring me here. What’s with the whole handcuffed to the metal chair routine?” Jack asks. They’ve got a myriad of codes to use when they can’t talk, but for some reason Mac uses none of them, and Jack feels his stomach flip.

Mac throws the hood aside and pulls a pair of safety shears out of his pocket. Jack watches, like he could do anything else, with apprehension as Mac cuts his clothes off down to his briefs. Now he trusts Mac implicitly, and Jack’s willing to go along with whatever Mac is up to, but this is not quite the typical brotherly bonding they did in the Army.

The air in the room is a little chilly without all his clothes but Jack doesn’t let himself shiver, unwilling to waste a single calorie on something that won’t help them both get out of this mess. Mac pockets the shears and throws the remains of Jack’s favorite Metallica shirt on the floor with the jeans and hood.

“So, uh, I don’t think I’m gonna be all that good at musical chairs when you’ve got me cuffed to the only chair. Wanna let me up before you play the music?” Jack asks.

Mac says nothing, but Jack sees him grit his teeth which is all the warning he gets before Mac’s fist connects with the side of his face.

“Ah, shit, hoss. You could have pulled that a little. Just because you punch me like the speed bag at the county fair doesn’t mean you’ll win the giant teddy bear. You gotta ease up before you knock all my stuffing out,” Jack says, spitting out blood. 

Jack looks back up, and there’s nothing but anger on Mac’s face, not even the slightest hint of regret. Jack’s seen Mac in a lot of sticky situations and he’s been there when Mac’s had to hurt someone — Mac has never been one to brush off violence. There’s always been regret, remorse, the shouldas, couldas, and wouldas to haunt the kid and keep him up at night. But like this, it’s like looking at a whole new person and Jack doesn’t like it one bit. 

“So are we having a staring contest now Mac? Gotta tell you, I’d’a bought you lunch if you wanted to do this, coulda skipped the whole busting me up bit,” Jack says, trying to break through to his goofy bomb nerd partner.

Mac lands another solid hit to the other side of Jack’s face, his hips twisting as he strikes, throwing his body weight into it. Jack sees stars and his head throbs. After years in the service and then with the Phoenix, Mac can hold his own in a fight and he can damn sure throw a good punch. It’s enough that Jack thinks he might already have a concussion, and he blinks dumbly, the room fuzzy and out of focus.

Then, as soon as he appeared, Mac is gone through the metal door leaving Jack alone with his headache and his questions.

*****

The next time Mac returns, Jack smiles, hopeful. 

“Hey, Mac. Come back to answer some questions?” Jack asks.

Mac looks down a Jack and says nothing.

Jack nods. It’s Mac, and he trusts Mac with his life — has for years. He doesn’t have a damn clue what Mac’s playing at, but Jack knows this isn’t without reason. “Okay, cool. Still doing the whole serial killer mime impression. Got it. Do I get food?”

No answer.

“Water?”

Nothing.

“A potty break?” And this question Jack is pretty serious about. “Mac, it’s been hours since some goons yanked me out of my car and I really gotta pee.”

Mac keeps staring at Jack and Jack figures that, like all the other questions, there’s not going to be any answers forthcoming. But right as he’s about to give up and move on to the next topic of conversation, Mac says, “Just pee yourself. I don’t give a damn.”

And honestly, Jack expected to have to pee himself anyway. No biggie. Goes with being detained in shitty situations. But for Mac to say it like that, like he resents Jack’s very being, like he’s nothing more than an inconvenience… Jack doesn’t want to admit it, but it scares him. 

He tries to think of something to fill the silence with and starts rambling. “You know how Riley likes to call anything but black coffee ‘froo-froo’ and ‘extra,’ but — and this is gonna be our little secret, Mac — I really do like the pumpkin spice. It’s my favorite time of the year. Oh and you can put those little candy bits in your drink, and man, that’s honestly the best. Like that’s the peak of living, you know? Getting to have pretty, lose-your-toes-to-diabetes sweet coffee every morning. It’s why I show up so fresh and awake. I stop and get my favorite thing at Starbucks — a caramel ribbon crunch — and I get-”

Jack feels the tip of the blade as it bigs into his shoulder, and he bites down, knowing that this is going somewhere bad. Slowly, inch by inch, Mac drags the blade from the top of his right trapezius to his lat. Jack jerks forward, pulling away from the knife, but Mac follows, the blade never stopping as it slices Jack open.

When it stops, Jack’s gasping for air, his mouth hanging open with spit dripping out from the force of his exhalations. His back is on fire and every movement sends fresh waves of white hot agony across his back which tells him that the wound is definitely more than skin deep. 

While Jack is regaining his bearings, Mac slowly circles the chair, bloody knife still in hand. So Jack does the only thing he can. He talks.

“But coffee, we-” Jack pauses to gasp and breathe through the pain. “We were talking about coffee. Toffee bits. They’ll put them on top and they stick in the whipped cream. So good. You know what makes coffee extra special?”

Mac answers the question by slamming Jack back, his wound colliding with the bars of the backrest, and making him scream. A second later, the knife digs into Jack’s left pec, the tip going in at an angle and prying the flesh out from his chest. This time, there’s no chance to stifle the scream that rips out of him. Jack’s legs kick out in protest, but they’re fastened tight to the legs of the chair and all he succeeds in doing is causing the knife to jerk further under his skin. 

“Mac,” he begs. “Please, buddy. Come on!” 

The knife trails down, the end of the blade still buried under Jack’s skin, until it rips out at the bottom of his pec. There’s another line down his thigh after that, and then just a wretched puncture wound to the pressure point on the inside of his elbow that makes Jack scream until he vomits.

Then, just like before, Mac stops, turns, and leaves without a word, and Jack is left, still cuffed to the chair, his wounds dripping blood to the floor. 

But Mac was careful and after a few minutes the bleeding grows sluggish before stopping altogether. Jack knows he’d never be so sloppy as to nick an artery, not when he’s simply biding his time. Mac will hurt him only as much as he has to, and no more. 

And Jack reminds himself of that over and over and over, because if it’s not true then there’s nothing stopping him. Not even Riley could find them if Mac didn’t want it. It’s a horrible thought, one Jack regrets the moment it enters his mind, but once it’s there it’s there. 

_Please, Mac,_ Jack silently pleads, _please figure this out soon, buddy. There’s not gonna be much point to playing along if I’m not alive at the end of it._

*****

The blood on Mac’s hands is sticky as it dries and despite it being far from the first time that Mac’s experienced that particular sensation, it’s definitely the first time Mac’s wanted to climb out of his own skin to escape it. 

A hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes. Mac can’t help the flinch.

“You’re doing so well, Angus. You know if you ever could get over those pesky emotions, you’d be excellent at this sort of work. Really, you are a natural.”

Mac turns, his breath shaky. “Fuck off, Murdoc. I’ll never enjoy torturing people.” 

Murdoc chuckles. “I mean, how much does the cashier at the grocery store _enjoy_ their work? How much does the garbage man enjoy picking up trash? Sometimes, Angus, work is just work. The idea that you have to enjoy it is just so privileged, wouldn’t you say? We live in late stage capitalism, MacGyver. You work because you’re good at it and it pays the bills. Stop being such a boy scout.”

Mac sneers and Murdoc punches him in the gut. He wishes he still had the knife that he used on Jack so that he could sink it into Murdoc’s tiny heart, but Murdoc took it from Mac at gunpoint the moment the door to the room was shut behind him. 

Murdoc grabs Mac by his hair and pulls him up straight. “Now, listen, MacGyver. You need to get your little anger issues under control. I don’t care if you like me and I really don’t care how you feel about Dalton, but you need to realize that you don’t control this scenario. And if you do anything, _anything,_ outside of what I tell you to do, I’ll go in there and make you watch while I take him apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left. Do you understand me?”

Mac grits his teeth. “Yes, I understand you.”

Murdoc releases Mac’s hair so fast he stumbles. “Oh, goody. Now let’s go plan our next round of fun!”

As they return to Murdoc’s hellish “planning table,” Mac supposes it’s a little too much to hope for a spontaneous aneurysm to strike Murdoc dead.

*****

The next time the door opens Jack’s asleep. His head snaps up, adrenaline launching him into immediate alertness. His everything hurts and he’s exhausted, his drawers are soaked with piss, he’s hungry, he’s thirsty, and goddammit he needs some answers. But answers don’t seem forthcoming because there’s Mac standing in front of him, his hand clenched tight around a metal pole with a fork at the end.

Now Jack’s a good Texas boy and he grew up on a farm, so the thing in Mac’s hand is easily identified as a cattle prod that’s widely available at most farm and feed stores. Jack’s stomach makes a feeble attempt at flipping at the sight. Every adolescent boy left unattended with a cattle prod has found out exactly what they feel like, and it hasn’t been so long that Jack is interested in a repeat lesson.

“So, uh, whatcha got there _hot shot?”_ Jack asks, hoping to use a little levity to stave off the inevitable. “You planning on doing a little cattle rustling later this afternoon, maybe? Probably right after you let me out of these cuffs and drop me off at the nearest ER, right?”

There’s a flicker of something, a grimace maybe or distress, Jack doesn’t get a good enough look between his concussion and the one badly swollen eye. But Jack hopes that maybe Mac might give something about this situation away without having to say anything at all. So he keeps talking and watching.

“You know, I actually rustled cattle once. I was fourteen and there was this girl in my FFA class, Julie. Julie’s dad ran a chicken farm — nasty, smelly things with so much debt you’ll never get out from under it. It was a dead end deal. Well anyway, Julie’s dad had told her that he’d always wanted to get into cattle — more money, less being owned by Pilgrim or Tyson or whoever had him by the balls. Of course she tells me this, telling me how much she’s always loved longhorns, and in my fourteen year old mind I had the perfect solution.”

Jack hears the prod _click click click_ and knows what’s coming. He voluntarily stops talking and closes his mouth to avoid biting the hell out of his tongue. 

It burns, the electricity racing through his veins like water through a hose, following the paths of least resistance and highest conductance. It’s enough that being shocked on the left shoulder makes his left fingers tingle and twitch. The cuts across his body scream as everything tenses involuntarily and Jack is helpless to stop any of it. All he can do is scream until he runs out of air. 

Finally, while Jack gasps for fresh air against the electrical onslaught, Mac stops. Jack’s body is screaming and he hurts both physically and emotionally. The person he trusts most is torturing him and it’s on par with some of the worst he’s ever been dealt. There’s no explanation and no mercy. Jack wants to cry, wants Mac to stop, wants all of this to be over and for there to be a damn good reason for every abused nerve ending. Instead, the prod _clicks_ and then connects with the inside of his knee. 

When it’s over and Jack looks up to see Mac’s face, he can tell that there’s no reprieve coming soon because Mac’s face is set. Jack’s stomach drops and he braces himself for the next shock.

*****

Jack’s singing a questionable rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky” when Mac comes back carrying two five-gallon buckets of water. There’s a rolled up towel under his arm and Jack already sees where this is going.

“I don’t know if I ever told you about this girl I dated while I was in training at Fort Bragg. She was a stripper. I think that’s a thing all special operators go through for some reason — dating strippers. I think I know like eight guys who married a stripper and man there are not a lot of strip bars so like every single one of them girls already knew each other. Man, it was weird.”

Jack watches Mac set the buckets down and notices a plastic tumbler in one of the buckets. It’s everything he’ll need but a bench.

“Anyway, so I didn’t marry her. Her name was Brittany, by the way. But we dated for about nine months. She was wild, man. Brittany had all these weird kinks, you know? I didn’t know what half that shit was before we dated, but boy did I learn. Paddles, gags, nipple clamps — the whole nine. She showed me how to use that stuff on her; I let her use it on me — we got freaky with that shit.”

Mac kneels beside Jack and begins wiggling a lynchpin that’s run through an eye where the back meets the seat of the metal chair. Mac pulls the pin free and slides a long, rectangular rod out of the slot, and then _bam._ The back of the chair falls, Jack falling with it, until it bangs against something beneath it. 

Jack can’t exactly see what he and the chair have come to rest against because he can’t turn around, but even if he could, his eyes are too blurry with tears from the sudden jolts of pain to make anything out. 

As soon as Jack can get air in his lungs again and speak without gasping he continues his story.

“But like all stories of romance in my life, Brittany and I did not work out. I wasn’t kinky enough for her and it turned out she was fucking like three other guys from my unit at the same time. It was a bit of a blow to my ego, but life goes on I guess.

“Hey, Mac?” Jack asks as Mac sets the buckets to either side of Jack’s head and pulls up a seat right behind him. Mac’s hand is already raised with the rag, but he lowers it. “Mac, I trust you more than anything and I know that as much as this is hurting me, it’s killing you, too. I know you’ll get us out of here.”

Mac doesn’t respond but in the split second before he lowers the rag to cover Jack’s face, Jack sees Mac’s face crumple, grief etched into every line. And that’s all Jack needs. Mac doesn’t want this. It’s all a set up. 

Water pours across the rag and Jack breathes through his mouth, fighting the sensation of drowning as his sinuses fill. His previous exhaustion means that Jack loses the battle of not fighting it sooner than he’d like to admit, and before long he’s thrashing in his bonds. Blood drips steadily from his still fresh wounds, now torn open anew by his struggles. Every nerve screams in agony and Jack can’t think of anything but _fear fear fear._

By the time the buckets are empty, Jack is sobbing, tears running down his cheeks and dripping off to mix in the pool of water and blood on the floor below.

*****

Jack coughs and he can feel water slosh in his lungs, too far down to get much of it out. The lack of oxygen is dizzying and he tries not to think about the impending pneumonia. He’s tired and worn down and absolutely not ready for the door to open again as soon as it does.

“Mac,” he rasps, too tired to care about the crowbar in Mac’s left hand. “Buddy, either you save me now or you finish me off. I’ve got maybe forty-eight hours in me between the pneumonia and the infections.”

Jack sees tears well up in Mac’s eyes and he looks at the floor unable to meet Jack’s eyes. Whatever is going on, Mac’s not remotely in control of it and he knows better than to talk. While Jack watches half-awake, Mac suddenly tenses and grips the crowbar tighter. Jack knows that Mac doesn’t want this either but apparently neither of them gets a say in it. 

Mac looks up, his broken heart written all over his face and tears running down his cheeks. Then, he raises the crowbar and swings.

Jack’s knee explodes — figuratively and damn near literally. There’s no question whether or not it’s broken — Jack knows it’s shattered. He’ll be lucky to walk again without a cane. He howls like a wounded animal, deep and piteous, keening wordlessly. 

Gasping and coughing, Jack fights to regain control over himself, situational awareness so heavily ingrained in him that even in the absence of hope, Jack begins to check for any means of egress. But standing in front of the only means of escape is Mac. He’s motionless save for a fine tremor that runs the length of his body and the tears that drip steadily from his face. 

It’s a panic attack if Jack’s ever seen one, and honestly Jack ain’t far behind. The reality of it all settles in Jack’s gut — he’s going to die here, and likely, so will Mac. 

“Sorry,” he rasps out, effort of talking sending him into another excruciating coughing fit. 

Mac’s head snaps up. “What?” The first genuine word he’s said since this whole thing began.

“Sorry,” Jack says again.

The tremors increase until Mac’s shaking like he just did the polar bear plunge. The crowbar slips from his hand to clatter noisily against the concrete floor and Mac stumbles backwards into a wall, sliding to the floor where he sits in a heap hyperventilating. 

“I wanna live, I wanna give,  
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold,  
it’s these expressions I never give,  
that keep me searching for a heart of gold, and I’m getting old…”

Jack sings softly, his bars punctuated by bouts of coughing and hacking, and he hums the harmonica refrain. Whatever happens now, however he dies, he’s gonna go down knowing that whoever did this to them didn’t take _this_ away from them. Jack still trusts his kid, still knows him good enough to know better than whatever they’re trying to pull here. And if this is their last moment together — because it might well be, the jig is clearly up after all — then he’ll be damned if he doesn’t spend it doing what he always does — watching out for Mac however he can.

Tears run down Jack’s cheeks and he closes his eyes, thinking of all the good times together. There’s more he wishes he could do or say, more people he loves like Riley and all the years he wishes he could make up. But she’s a tough girl and Jack knows that she’ll make it because she always has. 

The song ends and all that’s left in the room are the sounds of Mac’s crying and hyperventilating. It’s now or never and Jack thinks of the things he could say, but there’s only one that really matters.

“James is a total piece of shit,” he says, and Mac lifts his head from between his knees, his red-rimmed eyes staring directly at Jack. “You’re amazing. Not because of James, but because you chose to be. James never deserved you. I don’t either, but if you were my kid, and I wish you were, I don’t think I could be prouder of you. I love you, Mac.”

And peace floods Jack because he’s meant to say that for years now but he’s chickened out at every turn. Mac’s gaze has drifted off again so Jack closes his eyes. 

“Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you  
I need someone to love me the whole day through  
Ah, one look in my eyes and you can tell that's true…”

Jack can hear Mac scuffling around, but he keeps his eyes closed and keeps singing. It’s not until he hears the door open and close that he stops. This goodbye is bittersweet and heavy in his chest, and like all goodbyes it was far too short. 

When he was young and they went to the Baptist church down the road, Mama and the other church ladies in the choir would sing, “I’ll fly away.” Jack always thought it was kinda dark and not all that uplifting; he preferred “County Roads” instead, the feeling and the meaning are sorta the same, just less depressing. He thinks of that church and Jesus, and he hums John Denver’s classic song while hoping that maybe God would take mercy on a sinner like him.

*****

There’s a fever now and Jack’s lost all sense of time. There’s pain and hunger and the knowledge that he’s going to die in this stupid cell, cuffed to this stupid chair. Beyond that, Jack can’t muster enough brain cells to make a coherent thought. 

The door opens and Mac bursts in. Jack can’t help the flinch, and he sees the moment Mac clocks it. But whatever that does to them, it will have to come later, because Mac’s unlocking the cuffs.

“I know this is gonna hurt,” Mac says, hoisting Jack’s over his shoulder, “but we gotta get out of here. I don’t think we have long.”

Mac hauls him out of the room and down a long corridor. It’s hard to follow their path exactly. Jack’s exhaustion keeps getting the better of him and despite the bolts of pain lancing through almost every inch of his body, he nods off here and there as Mac runs. 

Jack comes to bouncing down a dirty road in the backseat of what is undoubtedly a stolen pickup truck. “Where-”

“I sent a message to Matty but I don’t know if they got it. I’m hoping there’s a medevac when we get to the extraction coordinates I sent her because if there isn’t we have a problem,” Mac says.

Jack sees Mac look anxiously into the rearview mirror. “Wh- who?”

“Murdoc. I don’t know if he just caught up this quickly, but I suspect that he actually let me escape with you as part of his little game. If he recovers us…”

Mac trails off but Jack knows how the sentence ends. But above them Jack can hear incoming helos, at least two, and hope swells in his chest alongside the pneumonia. 

“That’s them!” Mac exclaims. “And it looks like Murdoc is breaking off pursuit. I think we’re gonna make it!”

Jack smiles because of course they are. Mac is smart like that. Jack just hopes it isn’t too late anyway, Mac would never forgive himself.

*****

Mac sits by Jack's bedside for a week. Between the concussion, lacerations, pneumonia, and multiple surgeries to fix his knee, they put Jack on a ventilator in a medically induced coma. Mac sits there, bending hundreds of paperclips into different shapes, timing the nurses’ rotation to make sure Jack is readjusted to avoid bedsores. 

He’s already told them what happened — how Murdoc threatened Jack and showed him surveillance photos of Bozer, Riley, and Matty; how he promised to do to them what Mac didn’t have the heart to do to Jack and so much more. They have absolved him of guilt by whatever logic they’re using, but it’s bullshit. Nothing absolves him of this. 

The images of Jack bleeding, begging, struggling against his tortures play over and over and over in his mind. Mac drinks hospital coffee by the pot to avoid sleep and when it does come, it’s in fits and starts, lasting only until he dreams when he’s violently woken by nightmares of the things he did. It’s certainly no less than he deserves.

Mac doesn’t dwell on Jack’s words or on the songs he sung through coughing fits when the guilt of his actions threatened to overwhelm him. Instead, Mac remembers Jack’s flinch, not at the sound of the door, but at the sight of Mac. It’s a gulf that Mac doesn’t think could ever be breached and he’s certainly not going to be the one to ask. 

Instead, Mac waits as Jack’s O₂ levels go up and his white cell counts go down. They slowly bring Jack up out of the anesthesia and turn down the ventilator. He’s turned a corner, the doctor informs him. 

Later that night Mac leaves. He goes home and packs his things — after years living out of a backpack he doesn’t need much. It’s not hard to drop off the grid either. Dead drops with cash, secret safe houses, spare unregistered cars with fictitious tags — Mac’s halfway to Montana when his burner phone, the one with a brand new number that no one should have, rings.

“Hello?” Mac says, expecting someone to have “urgent news from the social security administration.”

“Angus Harold MacGyver, where in the hell do you think you’re going?” Matty snaps.

Mac nearly veers into a tree in surprise and pulls quickly to the shoulder for this conversation. “Uh, well, in general I was going away. Going to try out Montana for a while.” He knows there’s no point in lying to her if she already has the number to an unused cell phone that was paid for with cash in Tijuana. 

“Well, turn the fuck around. Jack is awake and he won’t shut the hell up about you and where you are. He also won’t believe us that we’re not lying to him about you being dead. The doctor is talking about sedating him again. So give me an ETA before I send a team to extract you,” she demands.

Mac shakes his head to recalibrate it like an early model GPS. “Uh, I’m near Zion National Park so it’ll take me about six hours.”

“You have five. Hurry up, MacGyver,” she orders and the call ends.

*****

Mac wants to throw up he’s so nervous. He’s walked into gunfire and biological warfare, run towards incoming missiles and picked apart more bombs than he can count, but this — facing Jack after everything — is just not something he’s trained for. Forcing himself forward one step at a time, Mac climbs the stairs to the critical care floor and walks down the hall.

“Hurry up, blondie!” Matty calls to the consternation of several nurses who shush her immediately.

Ducking his head in shame, Mac hurries on, ready to get this disaster out of the way. Jack doesn’t want him there and Mac doesn’t want to have to hear it, he wants to slip away without ever having to hear that he’s not wanted. He wants to take the coward’s way out. But it doesn’t look like Matty is going to allow that. She points angrily at the door to Jack’s room and Mac enters wordlessly.

“Riley, I don’t give a damn about-” Jack pauses mid-rant and stares at Mac. “Mac! Where you been?”

Mac swallows hard. “Riley, could you, uh, give us a minute.”

“Sure thing, Mac,” she says carefully. Mac doesn’t blame her. He’d be anxious around someone who could do this kind of damage too.

“Mac, what’s wrong?” Jack asks.

Mac shuffles his feet on the linoleum floor. “Matty said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I wanna talk to you?” Jack asks, his Texas drawl as big as the Texas sky with all the meds he’s on.

“Jack, let’s not draw this out. Please. Just say what you need to, get it off your chest, and then I can get out of your hair. I was all the way to Utah by the time Matty called,” Mac says.

“What? Why?” Jack asks, alarm in his voice.

Mac looks up, taking in Jack’s face for the first time since he’s been off the ventilator. He looks genuinely concerned and surprised. “Don’t do this, Jack. Don’t make me explain it. Please.”

“Yeah, well if you think you’re gonna run out on me, you damn well owe me an explanation,” Jack says, suddenly angry.

Mac sighs. He won’t rise to the bait. He owes Jack so much more than an explanation but it’s all he can give him. “Jack, I tortured you to the brink of death. I hurt you so badly you flinched at the sight of me. And then, you went septic, spent a week in a coma and on a ventilator. Your knee is so destroyed that your career is over and you may never walk without a crutch. So yeah, I left. I was going to give you space to heal without me looming over you, reminding you of all the ways that I failed you and betrayed you.”

“Okay, well that’s quite enough of that bullshit, young padawan,” Jack snaps, his eyes drug-hazy but furious. “ _I_ decide who I want in or out of my life. Not you. Furthermore, there were extenuating circumstances that you are conveniently ignoring so you can marinate in your own guilt. Matty explained the situation to me while you were conveniently road-tripping your way across the country. So you better sit your skinny ass down in that chair right there and get your head on straight.”

Mac takes a second to absorb what’s being said and does his best not to draw conclusions because despite all indications pointing to Jack not asking Mac to leave, he hasn’t actually said one way or the other yet.

“Sometime today, hoss. I’m getting any younger,” Jack says, snapping his fingers.

Mac strides over to the chair that he spent so many hours in and sits.

“Now listen up. Yes, I am hurt. Yes, you were involved. Yes, I’m going to need about six different types of therapy and those things are going to take years, if they ever get better. _But_ you need therapy, too. You got hurt in ways I am not jealous of at all. Mac, I cannot begin to imagine how I would feel in your place, and I don’t know that I’d want to survive what you’re going through, if I’m being honest. But the absolute last thing I want is my best friend in the whole wide world, the one who did everything he could to save me, to up and leave when I need him the most. Do you understand that?”

Jack waits expectantly and Mac bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. All that he can manage is a slight nod of his head.

“Good. So now that we’ve cleared that up, you’re not gonna up and leave me while I’m sleeping right?”

Mac shakes his head and has to wipe his eyes to avoid the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks.

“Great. Now I’m high as a kite on morphine and I’m gonna sleep a while. Go home if you need some space, but don’t go too far.”

Jack’s fingers open and close on the bed, his palm up. Mac is helpless to anything but give in to Jack’s demands, and he puts his hand carefully in Jack’s. It’s too much at once. Jack is warm and alive and his hand, while startlingly weak, grips back with life that the day before he lacked. 

“Come here, hoss. Come here,” Jack murmurs, and Mac goes where he’s pulled. He lays his face on the sheet next to Jack’s hand and lets the tears come as he sobs brokenly for every single way he’s fucked up Jack’s life.

Jack releases Mac’s hand and cards his fingers through Mac’s hair, dragging his nails across Mac’s scalp. “There it is. Let it out.”

Mac doesn’t deserve this kindness. Jack should hate him, should kick him out and yell and threaten. Mac wants to tell himself he doesn’t need it, to turn off everything, but he’s helpless under Jack’s hand and soft words, absorbing every drop of affection and trust like a plant in the desert soaking up the first drops of rain after a long drought. 

“I meant what I said,” Jack says after Mac’s sobs begin to quiet. “About James and about you. You’re worth so much more than he ever told you. I should have told you that years ago. I’m sorry it took almost dying to get it out. I didn’t ever feel like I had the right to try and replace your dad. But after seeing how he treats you… You deserve better is what I’m getting at.”

Mac shakes his head. “How? Deserve you? Deserve this? After everything I did to you?”

“Hush. I’m drugged. It’s my turn to ramble right now. You just sit there and work on your bullshit. It’s naptime for old Jack.”

And true to his word, Jack passes out in less than a minute. Mac reaches over and presses the button to the PCA pump. He can tell that Jack wasn’t using it so that he could be as lucid as possible when Mac finally showed back up, and Jack will sleep longer and deeper if he’s in less pain. 

He sits there, just watching Jack’s chest rise and fall, and thinks about Jack’s words. Mac understands the meaning of the words both in isolation and in combination, but the feeling behind it eludes him. His own father couldn’t be bothered to call him when Mac worked two floors down. And Harry did what he could, but Mac knew he hadn’t ever planned on another kid. 

And now Jack. Jack has been there through all sorts of shit and he’s been the closest Mac’s ever really had to a father, or maybe more of a weird uncle. Whatever the word, Jack’s family, and that’s never been an easy word for Mac. It’s easy to wonder when Jack’s good graces will finally end, because it seems to be how it goes in his life whether by his fault or not. 

He contemplates the whole wookie life debt situation and wonders if there’s a point at which that is nullified either by time or abuse of said debt. He’s debating googling the matter when Matty quietly opens the door.

“Did you get things worked out with him?” she asks softly.

Mac nods, fiddling again with a paperclip. “We talked. Or rather I talked a little and then Jack explained how things are going to be.”

Matty puts her hands on Mac’s knees. “Look at me, Mac. Jack is a big boy who can make big boy choices about who he wants to put his love and trust in. I know that some very, very ugly things happened with Murdoc. I also know that you’re not telling me the half of it. Something happened to you when you weren’t with Jack, but I’m not here to make you confess that. What I am here to say is: if Jack trusts you there is a damn good reason because Jack Dalton is very selective in who he lets into his life. 

“You are a good person, Angus MacGyver, and Jack is lucky to have you. We can’t pick our insane homicidal stalkers but we can pick our friends, and that counts for a lot. Don’t sell yourself short. He needs you as much as you need him right now. So stop making stupid choices like moving to Montana without telling anyone.”

Mac nods, a little off balance with so many emotions so soon after his last crying jag. Matty smiles and cups his cheek in her palm and then pulls him into a hug. Mac closes his eyes and rests his cheek on her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her back. For some reason, hugging Matty reminds him of Mom, though he’d happily die before telling her that. She’s honest, safe, and compassionate, and appreciates her in more ways than words will ever convey.

“Thank you, Matty,” Mac says quietly.

Her fingers ruffle the hair at the base of his skull. “Any time, Mac. My door is always open,” she says as she pulls away. “But seriously, though. Get a therapist. You need one,” she says with a smile.

Mac chuckles and nods in agreement. 

“Now before I go,” Matty pauses and picks up the tablet she’d set on the rolling tray. “I have prepped your and Jack’s termination papers. We’re writing it off as a medical termination so you’ll each have full benefits.” She must see the look on Mac’s face because she quickly clarifies. “Jack will never be able to be a field agent again. Heck, he was getting close to retirement age anyway. He’s going to need someone for a long time, Mac, and like I said before, you both need each other. This isn’t a punishment, it’s an assignment. Care for each other.”

She holds the tablet out and Mac scans over the terms of his termination and severance. Neither of them will ever need for anything again. It’s more than he ever expected. He looks up, ready to argue, but the look on her face says she expects him to argue and also has no plan of entertaining whatever he’s going to say. Mac signs his name and hands her the tablet. 

“Jack signed earlier. Now once he’s out of the hospital, you’ll both be debriefed as part of your termination, similar to your separation from the Army. In the meantime, rest, recuperate, and consider if Montana is really where you want to relocate to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mac says. She smiles and leaves Mac alone with Jack. 

Mac almost heads down a rabbit hole — why would anyone trust him alone with Jack after what he did — but he stops himself. The two most capable people Mac knows, people he trusts with his life, have both determined that he’s worthy of not just love but also trust. It stands to reason that maybe he’s the one at who’s mistaken in this scenario. He can’t quite believe it, but for the moment Mac’s willing to let it stand. 

Forgoing more hospital coffee, Mac pulls his chair next to Jack and lays his head on the mattress again. He slips his hand into Jack’s and Jack squeezes back in his sleep. Mac’s wrung out from both the drive and all of the crying. Thoughts swirl endlessly in Mac’s mind, until he decides that nothing will be solved today. They’ll take it all day by day and the answers will come when they’re ready.

Mac closes his eyes and falls asleep.


End file.
